


Beacon of Light

by Shush7



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Armie is Not Good here, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, just kidding we're already there, next stop: Angst Centrale, this really is quite depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14592024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shush7/pseuds/Shush7
Summary: But besides the obvious – sweaty curls sticking to his forehead and neck, palms and cheeks grimy from being bent against the wall encrusted with various bodily fluids and who knows what else – Timothée also felt unequivocally disgusted with himself deep down in his core.Disgusted, because he had never wanted anything more than he had wanted this. Disgusted, because he had also never wanted anything less.





	Beacon of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Truthfully, I've had some shit go down in my life the last couple of days, so of course instead of dealing with it, I tip tippity tap on my computer, pretending to be a writer, lol. This time I decided to take my frustration out on Timmy. Sorry, Timmy :(.
> 
> As always, this is a work of fiction, the Timothée and Armie in this work are fictional characters. I have the utmost respect and love for the both of them in real life and they would NEVER do the shitty things their fictional counterparts do here.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy the irl-angst-induced-Charmie-angst and your feedback is aaalways most welcome!

 

He felt absolutely _filthy_.

Not only in the literal sense, albeit having finished off in a dirty bathroom stall somewhere in downtown LA, come trickling down the inner side of his leg will do that to a man.

But besides the obvious – sweaty curls sticking to his forehead and neck, palms and cheeks grimy from being bent against the wall encrusted with various bodily fluids and who knows what else – Timothée also felt unequivocally disgusted with himself deep down in his core.

 _Disgusted_ , because he had never wanted anything more than he had wanted _this_. Disgusted, because he had also never wanted anything less.

He was still breathing rapidly from the exertion, heart beating in his chest in the same rhythm as the deafening beat out on the dancefloor, as if trying to break out, yelling _'I don't know you anymore, I don't even want to know you anymore. Just let me go.'_

And it was true, wasn't it? Because he as well didn't know his own heart at all. A man who knew his heart would never end up here, at least not a man who knew his heart to be pure, sincere, open to love, longing for caresses and tenderness.

And that's what Timothée thought to know about himself. He always thought that even if all else fails, he could always rely on his pure sincere open heart to guide him out of the darkness and into the light.

But now, that same heart had done the exact opposite.

Timothée's heart had taken him on a path of darkness and although the beginning had been illuminated by various sources of light to disguise its true nature, he had kept on going even when the lights had flickered, then burned out one by one until it was pitch black all around him.

Could he even find his way back now?

But _oh how easy_ it had been to take the path, especially at first when Armie had been the perfect beacon of light, brighter than the sun to Timothée.

Simply radiating _everything_ that mattered - love, adoration, comfort. Just being Armie, _his Armie_ , the Armie that let him stand on his feet when the grass got too hot. The Armie that combed his fingers through Timothée's curls after a long day of filming.

He was _everything_ and Timothée had just wanted to be on his orbit, to _please, please_ touch the beams of light that were emanating from Armie. A lighthouse could never steer you wrong, could it?

And so he had just followed, not thinking where it would lead, just as long he could have the tiniest of sips, briefest of touches, most cramped nooks of Armie's heart. It was impossible not to, _because of, well—_

 _Because of_ the way Armie had laughed with him, trust and adoration and tenderness seeping out of every pore, cuddled against Timothée on whichever narrow couch seemed most comfortable in their current hotel rooms.

 _Because of_ the way Armie had whispered soft _'I love you'_ s between small bites and licks down his naked back, leaving tiny red marks and simultaneously holding down his hips to keep him from arching up, moving lower and lower until finally kissing him _there_.

 _Because of_ the way Armie had looked at him _as if he was everything_. As if his hands could cure the wounds Armie had carried with him through the years, or his eyes and lips the newly discovered epidemic in his heart. As if he was the answer to every question, solution to every problem. _Everything._

 _'Why do I feel like nothing, then? Why did Armie treat me like nothing, then?'_ Timothée thought, squeezing his lips tightly together in a futile attempt to suppress some of the hurt in his heart, drawing his forearm up to support himself against the dirty wall.

_Had time diminished his value? Was he a mere tool of Armie's self-discovery and, as all tools do, had he too become defunct?_

He rested his cheek on his forearm, messy curls tickling the inside of his elbow, and shut his eyes once more, realizing he could almost feel the warm hands ghosting on his hips that had been there only a moment ago, digits vehemently pressed into the soft flesh. Those hands either pushing him against the vertical surface or pulling him towards the source of pleasure.

Timothée was hoping that doing so, they had left marks as then he could pick and prod at them later. At least he could have that, take that part of Armie home with him.

Or maybe, _maybe_ if he tried harder now, shut off all of his senses, he could bring the memory of Armie pressed against him back with enough force that it would seem real for a second more. If only he could have Armie with him for the briefest of moments, ' _even here, even in this filthy space where love comes to die_ '.

Armie would have his hands around him, kiss his neck, whisper something lovely, however big of a lie, in his ear, _just hold him_. Make him feel less alone in this, make him feel less of a whore.

Timmy curled one hand against his stomach, trying to imagine it was Armie's instead, caressing him softly, injecting life into him with the tips of his fingers, but the hand was too cold, too skinny, _without a ring_.

He flinched his hand away immediately as if it had been burned. There was no way he could ignore this, ignore that _Armie had just left him_ _there_.

 _There_ out of all the places, alone in a filthy bathroom stall in who knows exactly which club in LA, drunk out of his mind, because _"We can't go back together, it'll look suspicious. I'll go first."_

He hadn't asked if it was good for him. _It wasn't. Not this time._

He hadn't asked if he was sore. _He was. Not enough preparation, not enough care._

Armie had just zipped up after, rubbed his hands with copious amount of soap under hot water _as if that would wash his hands of Timmy as well_ and gone back to their friends.

No, not their friends _− his friends, his Nick, his Ryan, his Beatrice, his Elizabeth._

_But he'd left his Timmy._

Was that what he deserved? Was that what he deserved because he had wanted _this? Because he had wanted Armie? Because after everything, even in this shameful predicament, he still wanted Armie?_

He wanted Armie to put his hands on him, draw out either laughter or pleasure from his thin body, call him beautiful despite him being so thin, perhaps call him beautiful _because of it_. Caress his cheekbones, say 'I love you' again, _even a whisper would do_ , even if it was a lie. Whisper even bigger lies against the most sensitive spots on his body, Armie knew all of them like the back of his own hand.

He wanted Armie to feed him hope because he could still stomach it.

He still wanted Armie. He hated himself for it.

Because having Armie was not a dream come true, it was a nightmare.

A vicious nightmare, coming back to haunt him night after night only to sneer _'You got what you wanted. Happy now?'_

No. _No._

There was nothing happy, nothing beautiful about a love like this. _It was all hurt._

He had wanted Armie so bad, he would have taken anything. He didn't know _this_ would be it.

 _This_ had started so softly, _this_ had been so tender. _This_ had gone so awry.

Sunny mornings in Crema, fingers in Armie's hair, pulling it while Armie leisurely traced Timothée's arousal with his tongue, turned into sneaking around in New York, LA, all over the world really, naughty smiles, chasing quick pleasure on countless hotel room couches and beds, turned into desperate, stolen moments characterized by hurried preparation, muffled moans and endless guilt.

 _This_ was way past its due date. They had tricked fate long enough.

He finally pushed himself off the wall, swaying slightly on his feet due to having drunk four cocktails on an empty stomach, and started pulling up his tight black jeans.

He considered grabbing a paper towel and wiping off the come from _−_ but suddenly his breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes shut in shame _because he could feel some more leaking out of him, dribbling down his thighs ever so slowly, still warm._

He reached down and wiped it off with his hand.

Armie hadn't even asked if he _−_ if he could come in him. He had just assumed, claimed him, marked him, _his_.

He didn't feel like a person anymore, he felt like property. _How could he possibly still want it?_

_Was that what he deserved?_

Looking at his sticky, shaking hands, Timothée didn't realize he was crying, not until the first clear drops falling from somewhere above mixed with the viscous fluid in his palm. After that, the clear drops just kept on coming.

 _***  
_ Having fixed his hair and washed his face with water, Timothée walked across the dancefloor to the high table where Armie and _his_ friends were sitting, drinking, _laughing_.

Armie was deliberately ignoring him, playing the part of a good husband, hand curled around his wife, not noticing how Timmy winced when he sat down on the bar stool across from him, not noticing how his eyes were red-rimmed, hands shaky from holding himself up earlier. Or maybe he just didn't care.

 _"Baby, don't be sad. I care too much to see you like that,"_ he would say if given the opportunity. But actions speak louder than words, so the words must all be lies, _whispered 'I love you's paling in comparison to his body screaming the exact opposite._

Timothée prided himself on being a good actor, so he put on his widest smile. If Armie really looked, he would be able to tell that it never reached his eyes.

But why would he look? It was easier not to.

Armie finally acknowledged Timothée being there, handing him a rum and coke with one hand and, smiling, raised his own drink for a toast, "To a great night!"

"Hear, hear!" yelled everyone, loudly clinking the glasses together in genuine cheer.

Everyone seemed happy. Armie seemed happy.

_'If this is love, please let it be my last.'_

 

 


End file.
